Poems 


B,  Preston  Clark,  Jr. 


UCSB   LIBRARr 


Poems 


By    B.    PRESTON    CLARK,    Jr. 


Boston 
The  Four  Seas  Company 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
The  Four  Seas  Company 


The  Pour  Seas  Press 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  THESE  THREE  FRIENDS  WHO  GAVE  THEIR  LIVES 
IN  THE  GREAT  WAR  THESE  POEMS  ARE  DEDICATED 

CAPT.  BRANTON  HOLSTEIN  KELLOGG 

LIEUT.  RICHMOND  YOUNG 
PRIV.  RICHARD  MATHER  JOPLING 


For  poems  reprinted  in  this  volume,  acknowledge- 
ments are  due  to  the  editors  of  "The  Century  Maga- 
zine," "The  Poetry  Journal,"  "The  Harvard  Advocate," 
"The  Harvard  Musical  Review,"  "The  Harvard 
Lampoon,"  and  "The  Harvard  Monthly." 


CONTENTS 

Page 

SONNETS 

1 9 

II 10 

III ii 

IV 12 

V 13 

SONNET 14 

A  DREAM  OF  NINEVEH 15 

MY  APRIL 16 

To  R 17 

To  R.  P.  W 18 

ILLUSION          19 

L/ANCIENNE   AMOUREUSE    .......  20 

NOCTURNE 21 

AT  DUSK 22 

NOCTURNES 23 

THE  BELLS 25 

GHOSTS 26 

THE  DREAM 27 

THE  FAUN 28 

DUSK          29 

FAITH         30 

QUATRAIN        31 

AUTUMN          32 

THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  CAPTAIN'S  WIFE  ....  33 


SONNETS 
I. 

Once  more  along  the  undulating  seas 

Of  blowing  wheat  I  see  the  summer  flowers, 

And  faintly  smell  rain-dripping  apple-trees 
Across  a  shining  interval  of  showers. 

This  flux  of  life  regardless  of  our  reasons, 
Our  passionate  strivings  and  our  love  and  hate 

Surely  this  spirit  of  unfailing  seasons 
Is  something  at  the  heart  of  God's  estate. 

Surely  this  ancient  temple  of  loud  war 
With  all  its  images  of  brutal  death 

Is  less  a  sign  than  summer  at  my  door 
And  the  assurance  of  the  old  sea's  breath. 

Sorrow  of  man, — that  is  a  moment's  worth 
Beside  the  immortality  of  earth. 


[9] 


II. 


I  watched  the  dusk  upon  the  sea  delay, 
And  in  the  shallows  the  black  herons  stalked, 
And  in  the  leaves  some  lonely  spirit  talked, 

Then  a  gray  pause — and  then  the  end  of  day. 

I  saw  the  tide  turn  by  the  river's  edge, 

And  cedars  stand  more  black  against  the  sky, 
And  something  dark  that  swooped  and  fluttered  by, 

And  herons  leaving  the  tide-covered  ledge. 

Stars  stirred  at  the  beginning  of  the  night, 
And  wind,  descending,  made  the  still  leaves  quiver, 
And  once  a  fish  splashed  in  the  silent  river. 

There  was  no  beauty  in  the  white  stars'  light. 

Then,  as  a  thread  breaks  and  disaster  comes, 
Came  in  the  stillness  a  far  roll  of  drums. 


[10] 


III. 


Peace  and  the  languid  hours  by  the  fire, 
The  tranquil  country  by  the  tranquil  sea — 

Where  are  you  fled  that  loosed  our  souls'  desire 
To  walk  with  stars  and  wind  in  ecstasy? 

Peace  with  your  mother's  bosom  and  your  balm, 
That  waited  at  the  gate  of  evening's  gloom 

To  greet  our  fretful  coming  with  your  calm, 
How  have  you  left  us  in  this  day  of  doom? 

Peace  gave  her  best  of  life  to  those  she  bore, 
And  twilight  creeping  on  her  splendid  day 

Is  loud  with  clamour  of  her  sons  at  war, 
Fighting  for  Peace  in  God's  gigantic  way. 

At  last  earth's  manhood  battles  toward  the  dawn, 
And  those  who  die  are  Peace  for  those  unborn. 


IV. 


Again  I  see  the  magic  dusty  street, 

Wind-loud  and  washed  with  sunset  afterglow, 
Where  under  amber  walls  the  people  go 

With  gentle  hush  of  softly  falling  feet. 

Some  Puck  goes  darting  past  me  in  the  night, 
Shrill-shrieking,  and  the  silence  broken  so, 
I  cease  my  steps  already  grown  so  slow 

To  whistle  underneath  your  window's  light. 

Time  passes  .  .  .  and  the  dreams  of  dusk  are  fled 
Before  the  shadow  of  the  night's  descent, 
And  greater  dreams  are  born  of  their  intent 

To  lift  the  night  of  darkness  and  of  dread. 

Down  Holyoke  street,  soldiers  are  passing  by 
Beneath  the  ice-green,  late  November  sky. 


[12] 


V. 


Then  Autumn — when  I  thought  the  summer  still 
Was  in  full  glory  in  my  garden  bright — 
Quietly  killed  my  flowers  in  the  night, 

And  turned  the  maples  crimson  on  the  hill. 

Somehow  this  spell  of  golden  and  blue  days, 
Afield  the  drowsy  crickets  ceaseless  song, 
Fills  one  so  full  of  dreams  that  overlong 

One  travels  in  the  pleasant  summer  ways. 

I  will  awake  and  work — this  last  night's  frost 

Shatters  the  summer's  dream  with  one  sharp  word, 
As  once  a  world-wide  battle  cry  was  heard, 

And  Death's  reward  proved  greater  than  Death's  cost. 

As  once  the  young  men  went  from  this  old  town 
To  build  an  altar  on  a  shattered  crown. 


[13] 


SONNET 

Too  often  have  I  turned  impatient  eyes 
Inward,  upon  some  darkness  in  my  soul, 
Until  the  blackness  blotted  out  the  whole 
Of  life's  resplendent  beauty  with  its  lies; 
Until  some  flower's  sweetness  or  a  face, — 
Some  bit  of  God,  recalled  me  from  my  shame, 
That  I  was  touched  with  Heaven's  earthly  flame, 
And  found  eternal  beauty  in  that  place. 

The  deeper,  common  beauty  that  we  slight, 

I  think  would  make  this  gray  world  rich  again  ;- 

Old  people  plodding  down  an  Autumn  lane — 

The  lesser  stars  upon  a  silver  night — 

The  glory  of  a  blue  and  faded  frock — 

The  sun  on  city  walls  at  five  o'clock. 


[14] 


A  DREAM  OF  NINEVEH 

Thus  in  the  crystal  my  imagining 
Saw  all  the  gilded  domes  of  Nineveh, 
And  on  a  towering  elephant,  the  king, 
Riding  resplendent  in  his  crimson  car. 

I  saw  the  jade  gates  open  from  afar, 
Heard  in  the  dusk  a  thousand  bronze  bells  ring, 
And  loud  the  voices  of  the  revellers  sing 
Within  the  ancient  walls  of  Nineveh. 

Then  the  moon  came  over  the  empty  plain 
Painting  the  golden  Nineveh  like  lead, 
As  though  it  were  a  city  where  the  dead 
Held  ghastly  pantomime  of  life  again. 

Out  of  the  gates  an  elephant  loomed  striding, 
And  on  his  back  a  skeleton  was  riding. 


MY  APRIL 

There  is  a  day  of  April  in  my  heart, 

Flooded  with  fragrance  of  plowed  fields  and  rain, 
And  laughter  at  the  cross-roads  where  we  part, 

And  laughter  at  the  place  we  meet  again. 

The  magic  of  my  April  has  no  name  ; 

Not  Spring,  nor  all  the  glory  to  come  after, — 
My  April  is  the  Joy  the  earth  became, 

Hearing  the  sweet  abandon  of  your  laughter. 

The  memory  of  laughter  lingers  still, 

Like  some  bird's  singing  after  he  has  flown, 

Or  echoes  thrown  from  hill  to  answering  hill, 
That  never  die  or  leave  the  heart  alone. 

Death  cannot  still  the  echoes  Love  awakes, 
So — April  and  your  laughter  he  forsakes. 


[16] 


TO    R. 

When  rain  upon  the  windows  of  my  soul, 

Beats  down  in  angry  torrents  from  on  high, 
Hiding  the  golden  sun  that  is  the  goal 

Of  dreams  unnumbered  battling  up  the  sky, 
I  hear  the  dismal  music  and  the  rush 

Of  rain  and  wind  in  wandering  discontent, 
Then  suddenly  a  blank,  abysmal  hush 

Smothers  the  loud  confusion  of  lament. 

Such  silence  strikes  my  courage  with  despair, 
As  might  a  warrior,  who  sees  his  foe 

Vanish  into  the  nothingness  of  air 

Gaze  down  upon  his  useless  sword  in  woe. 

Then,  in  my  utmost  hour  you  appear, 

And  once  more  I  am  master  of  my  fear. 


[17] 


TO    R.  P.  W. 

When  church-bells  break  the  quiet  city's  calm 
With  silver-toned  recall  to  morning  prayer, 

And  joyful  chimes  delight  the  golden  air — 
I  feel  the  soul  of  David  in  their  psalm. 

They  talk  with  tongues  of' singing  faith,  until 
I  hear  the  ringing  depths  of  David's  voice 

Across  the  centuries  'Rejoice,  Rejoice/ 
And  I  go  forth  with  fire  for  his  will. 

And  yet  upon  my  joy  there  steals  a  sorrow, 
That  David  losing  Jonathan  could  feel; 

Ah,  marks  that  memory  will  not  let  heal ! — 
The  yesterday  that  is  the  heart's  tomorrow. 

The  choir-boy  that  brings  you  back  to  me — 
Youth  and  our  great  adventures  by  the  sea. 


[18] 


ILLUSION 

When  youth  unknowing  loved  a  ghost  of  thee, 
He  was  a  star-mad  fool  who  saw  thy  face 
In  every  living  loveliness  and  grace, 

And  heard  thy  voice  in  every  melody. 

How  many  nights  youth  heard  the  murmurous  sea 
Chanting  love's  promise  in  a  moon-charmed  place, 
And  watched  the  silver  messengers  of  space, 

Constant,  it  seemed,  with  thine  own  constancy. 

And  now  .    .  when  dream-eyed  youth  grows  more  a 

man, 

When  gleam  and  glamour  deepen  to  desire 
Of  greater  mysteries  and  purer  fire  .   .   . 

How  has  age  changed  the  witchcraft  youth  began? 

Still  ...  all  the  stars,  thou  dream,  are  this  to  me, 
That  youth  unending  loves  a  ghost  of  thee. 


[19] 


L'ANCIENNE  AMOUREUSE 

So,  if  the  thrush  delights  my  soul  no  more, 
And  laughter  is  a  legend  of  dead  days, 

It  is  that  you  have  lately  left  my  door, 
And  I  have  need  of  you  and  your  old  ways. 

I  still  await  your  tread  upon  the  stair 
When  the  deep  heat  has  left  with  the  last  light, 

Still  feel  your  gaze  when  I  unloose  my  hair, 
And  lift  my  arms  in  tremulous  delight. 

If  there  is  no  more  sweetness  in  men's  praise, 
And  stars  are  feeble  fires  to  my  sight, 

It  is  because  you  gave  my  lover's  gaze 
A  radiance  that  has  made  the  world  less  bright. 

Yet — there  is  something  of  the  love  I  knew — 
This  still  room  with  its  memory  of  you. 


[20] 


NOCTURNE 

The  summer  lightning  flashes  silver  fire, 

Like  broken  swords  against  the  starless  night, 

And  one  tall  cedar,  like  a  village  spire, 
Stands  silent  in  the  suddenness  of  light. 

Here  by  the  sleeping  sea  I  shall  await 
Until  the  friendly  tide  returns  to  me, 

Stirring  the  silence  at  the  river's  gate 
To  whispered  words  of  wonder  from  the  sea. 

Far  in  the  night  a  golden  ship  goes  by, 

Like  some  slow  serpent  with  a  jeweled  side, 

And  from  the  land  a  night  bird's  lonely  cry 
Pierces  the  stirring  of  the  stealing  tide. 

Then  on  the  black  and  gold  the  rain  descends, 
And  I  remember  how  all  glory  ends. 


[21] 


AT  DUSK 
(A  VERSE  COUPLET) 


i. 


I  played  an  aria  on  my  flute  at  dusk, 

And  she  was  still  as  the  leaves  on  the  shadowed  hill, 

As  voiceless  as  the  imminent  sea. 

I  sang  to  her  a  song  of  love, 

And  she  seemed  somehow  far  from  me — unhearing— 

Depthless  in  her  immutability ; 

Then  I  was  silent, 

And  the  leaves  stirred  under  the  new  stars, 

The  sea  took  up  its  song  upon  the  sands, 

And  somehow  her  hand  crept  magic  into  mine. 


2. 


He  played  me  an  aria  on  his  flute  at  dusk, 

Like  thrushes  in  an  April  wind, 

Till  all  my  heart  ran  silver  with  his  lilt. 

He  sang  me  a  song  of  love, 

And  I  was  dumb  with  crowding  answers, 

And  prayed  the  great  magician  for  one  word. 

Then  he  was  silent, 

And  the  leaves  stirred  under  our  new  stars, 

The  sea  took  up  our  song  upon  the  sands, 

And  somehow  magic  crept  about  our  hands. 

[22] 


NOCTURNES 

I. 

Tonight, 

The  moon  is  like  a  golden  lamp 

Glowing  through  clouds  of  gray  incense; 

There  are  no  stars, 

And  a  damp  wind  is  creeping 

Up  from  the  South. 

•The  trees  are  very  black, 

The  slender  grape  vine  trembles  in  the  cool  wind, 

And  white  moths  hurry  over  the  wet  meadow ; 

The  clouds  float  across  the  moon, 

Gray  and  silently, 

And  on  the  shore 

I  hear  the  long  sloping  swell, 

Rolling  sullenly  in — 

Tomorrow  there  will  be  a  storm. 


[23] 


II. 


This  is  the  night  of  white  moths 

That  flutter  and  play 

Over  the  tall  grass  in  the  meadows, 

And  in  the  gardens 

Nestle  in  the  blue  irises  and  dull  red  roses. 

The  world  is  a  pale  blue  flower-garden, 

Lit  by  dim  stars 

And  a  crescent  moon, 

And  pillaged  by  many  white  moths. 

The  grass  is  silver  with  many  cobwebs ; 

The  cedars  are  asleep, 

And  the  scent  of  the  honeysuckle 

Is  very  sweet  in  the  air — 

Tonight  is  the  night  of  white  moths. 


[24] 


THE  BELLS 

In  the  surf  of  the  wind  and  the  trees — 

The  bells— 

And   the   silver   fleet   of   the   stars   by   my   window 
drifting  .  .  . 

I — who  am  I  to  hear  the  bells  in  the  surf 
And  watch  stars  sailing? 

In  the  surf  of  the  wind  and  the  trees — 

The  bells— 
Gashing — quivering — dying — 

And  the  silver  fleet  of  the  stars  by  my  window 
drifting  .    .    . 

I — who  am  I  to  hear  the  bells  in  the  surf, 
And  watch  stars  sailing? 


[25] 


GHOSTS 

'There  must  be  ghosts  all  the  country  over, 

As  thick  as  the  sands  of  the  sea' — 

Ghosts  of  other  days  and  ways, 

Days  that  were  beautiful  when  we  were  we. 

There  is  one  ghost  that  lurks  behind 

The  songs  I  sing  of  thee; 

Among  the  songs  the  waves  sing 

In  the  eternal  sea. 

There  is  a  ghost  in  every  wind  that  blows, 

In  every  leaf  that  stirs  in  lethargy, 

Summer  and  winter  all  the  ghosts  compound 

The  discontent  your  magic  left  with  me. 

I  am  a  haunted  flame  in  the  sunset  of  laughter, 

Who  am  I  since  we  were  we? 

There  must  be  ghosts  all  the  country  over, 

As  thick  as  the  sands  of  the  sea.' 


[26] 


THE  DREAM 

Perhaps  the  very  amplitude  of  grace 

Made  the  slow  dawn 

Spreading  its  fire  on  the  eastern  sky 

Seem  less  a  thing  of  wonderment  to  me  .    .   . 

I  was  still  dreamy  with  the  gaze  of  stars, 

Still  listening  for  your  lute  among  the  leaves, 

When   suddenly   the   white   day   came,   and   Oh   my 

heart ! — 
Like  a  shrill  cry  destroyed  my  reverie. 

The  shadowed  host  of  night  sped  down  the  dawn, 
And  on  the  sand  the  singing  waves 
Fled  chattering  away  .   .   . 

A  child  who  dreams, 

Wakened  by  an  amazing  lantern  light, 

Turns  sobbingly 

Still  with  the  cob-web  of  the  pleasant  dream 

Clinging  upon  his  eyes, 

Even  as  I  (surprised  by  the  incontinent  day,) 

Buried  my  face  in  my  half-hiding  hands  .  .  . 

Yet  in  the  crevices  of  light 
My  dream  escaped. 


[27] 


THE  FAUN 

And  so  I  caught  a  glint  of  life 

Like  sun  upon  a  spider's  thread, 

And  guessed  at  what  the  green  leaves  said 

That  held  the  ends  I  could  not  see — 

And  he — 

He  held  the  leaves  apart  until  the  flame 

Of  sun  ran  down  the  slender  length  of  thread, 

And  then  as  quickly  shadowed  with  his  head, 

Thread,  sun  and  leaves,  and  whispered  me  my  name, 

And  I— 

I  reached  with  my  two  arms  and  found  him  there, 

In  his  own  shadow,  and  drew  him  down  the  stair 

Of  talking  leaves,  until  he  lay 

Beside  me  in  the  golden  day. 


[28] 


DUSK 

There  is  a  western  drift  of  clouds, 
And  one  like  a  rose-radiant  scythe 
Across  the  last  light  curtain  of  the  day  .  .  . 

Under  the  bridge  the  grey,  hushed  river  runs, 
And  in  the  leaves  brush  wings  of  a  light  wind. 

The  poplars  sway  and  bend  their  heads 
Beneath  the  burden  of  the  dusk, 
And  in  the  imminence  of  night 
One  lone  black  heron — silently — 
Drifts  and  descends  . 


[29] 


FAITH 

I  have  seen  to-day — 

An  old,  old  woman  in  a  market  cart; 

The  old  horse  swayed 

Until  the  shafts  just  seemed  to  hold  him  on  his  feet: 

Wheels,  cart,  and  horse  seemed  like  a  broken  heart 

Ready  to  crumble  in  the  dust. 

Only  the  eyes  of  the  old  woman 

That  watched  the  road  ahead, 

And  her  thin  hands  upon  the  reins 

Saved  the  frail  dream. 


f30] 


QUATRAIN 

There  is  a  splendid  truth  in  swimming  with  you, 
Beneath  gray  skies  toward  the  end  of  the  endless  sea, 
Into  the  waves  and  the  wind  and  the  v^onders  to  be, 
Free  as  an  arrow  cleaving  the  green  and  the  blue. 


AUTUMN 

It  is  like  a  vision  of  brave  death, 

This  silent-sandalled  army  on  the  hills; 

Somehow  the  dwindling  banners  on  the  downs, 

Last  caperings  of  clowns, 

Last  golden  goblets  filled  and  tipped  and  spilled, 

Last  glints  of  waving  scarves 

Upon  the  battlements  of  Camelot; 

Somehow  the  dwindling  banners  on  the  downs, 

The  fading  flash  of  armour — trappings — swords — 

The  last  Crusaders — crumbling  castle  walls; 

Green  rushes  in  the  mud  of  moats, 

And  boats  and  barges  buried  underneath. 

It  seems  the  autumn  leaves  stir  there, 

To  trace  a  little  gold,  write  something  fair 

Upon  the  black  place  of  forgetfulness, 

Something  in  memory — 

"Stand  back!  for  Guinevere  shall  pass." 


[32] 


THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  CAPTAIN'S  WIFE 

Here  in  this  quiet  garden  place, 
Lilac  and  cherry  hedged, 
There  is  a  sad  content  like  a  fair  face 
Weary  in  sleep  .   .  . 

The  green  long  grass  gold-wedged  with  dandelions 
The  deep  cool  shadows  of  the  distant  pines 
Against  an  azure  sky  blown  with  white  cloud — 

There  is  a  presence  gone, 

An  emptiness  more  loud  than  the  bird's  song; 

Yet  with  the  sun  and  apple-blossoms  blows 

A  bravery  like  life  itself, 

Something  unfaltering  and  deep  with  faith, 

Like  the  pink  slender  sprays  of  peach 

Standing  against  the  gray  wall's  reach. 


[33J 


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